There’s a woman in my parents’ ward that we’ll call Sister Ogden. I met her when my mom introduced us at the grocery store, and then a few months later she and I took the same Spanish history class. She never missed an opportunity to criticize the Catholic church in class, which I found embarrassing, since she also acted like I was her Mormon buddy, until the day she loudly asked me in front of the class why she hadn’t seen me at church. I wimped out and said that I worked on Sunday, which was true but also a prevarication of sorts.
Because she was Mormon, I assumed that I already knew her. I knew everything about her. She was a caricature to me. I thought I didn’t need to get to know her, because the fact that she was Mormon told me everything I needed to know.
I didn’t exactly dislike her, but I found her a little intense. I was afraid she’d embarrass me, or put me on the spot again. When I signed up for a Hispanic film class, I worried that she’d be in the class, that she’d whine about R-rated movies or something.
She was in the class. She did not whine about R-rated movies. She did not embarrass me. She did not put me on the spot. She turned out to be intelligent. She turned out to be hilarious. She turned out to be talented and kind and thoughtful. She was so much more than the caricature I’d made her out to be. I thought I’d had her pegged, and I was so very wrong. I still feel like an ass about it.
I’ve spent a long time being suspicious of Mormons. I’ve spent a long time avoiding Mormons. I’ve spent a long time pretending that Mormons are really, really different from me, and by different I mean not as awesome.
Sounds kind of bigoted, huh? I’m working on it.
